Nature Is A Rag Merchant, Who Works

It Is A Greater Joy To See The Author's Author, Than Himself.

Everything In Our World, Even A Drop Of Dew, Is A Microcosm Of The Universe.

Life Is Not So Short But That There Is Always Time Enough For Courtesy.

The Hero Is Not Fed On Sweets, Daily His Own Heart He Eats; Chambers Of The Great Are Jails, And Head-winds Right For Royal Sails.

Who Gave Thee, O Beauty, The Keys Of This Breast,-- Too Credulous Lover Of Blest And Unblest? Say, When In Lapsed Ages Thee Knew I Of Old? Or What Was The Service For Which I Was Sold?